


fox of the wastes

by orphan_account



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Anal Sex, Legion Courier, M/M, Nothing too explicit, Per se, This isn't a smut fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-02-28
Packaged: 2018-01-14 01:11:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1247128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vulpes Inculta hates leaving the Fort, except on business. When he finds an excuse to go get a report from the Courier, he finds that there wasn't really much to report in the first place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	fox of the wastes

In a world of radiation galore, buildings torn apart by waves of irradiated sky, where nearly everything gives off the same horrible feeling of bones shivering, Vulpes Inculta radiates a shocking amount more.

It is never comfortable when he meets the courier like this. A few miles south of Novac, some spot in the wasteland that people are trying to forget, the man stands, ethereal and proud, off of the side of the road. His black hair, once close-cropped, now hangs lank and slightly curled and matted on top of his head. He wears a black duster, the coat rippling in the dusty breeze. Vulpes Inculta waits, again, for him to arrive.

When he does show up, he moves slowly, his body rocking. Lithe and lean, the courier’s body is little more than a number of angular ruts and turns, rather weak but definitely not incapable. What he loses in his arms, he makes up for with his eye. “Your face does the talking…” the child said. He wasn't wrong. “A gamble that might pay off?” We’ll see about that one.

Vulpes turns his head abruptly to look at the figure approaching. He tucks his hand inside of his jacket and fingers the hilt of his combat knife. When the figure comes closer he sees the ghastly pale face of the courier…the white skin, hair grey and rustic, and a nasty scar above his left eye, like a crack in his brow, leading down. His left eye is lidded and red. He smiles deliriously and bows as he approaches Inculta.

“Hello,” says Vulpes, voice serpentine and quiet.

The courier stops several feet in front of Vulpes. “Hey,” he says.

“What do you have to report?”

“The usual. Were you expecting anything out of the ordinary?”

“I was expecting more than a ‘usual’.”

“Damn shame.”

Inculta glares down the courier. They stand off. Fox and the crow, the raven, wings spread.

As agents of Caesar, the courier moves with haste where Inculta pauses and waits. The courier sets the sky alight in flights of cinders, while Inculta works with precise movements and carefully thought strikes. Neither of them are good men. Neither of them care. The bodies were piled too high before either one of them saw what had become of them.

So when the courier smirks again at Inculta and nods his head back to the shabby town of Novac, Vulpes does not feel alone. As they walk lightly back to the run-down motel, neither says a word, but the courier can’t stop grinning for whatever reason. Somewhere in there the other grabs the other’s hand. 

Inculta doesn't want to admit it was him.

Sentiment, the frumentarius thinks, atop of a pile of corpses, after fire and fame and loss and gain, I still have room for sentiment? The man is disgusted at himself but hides it and frowns at the sky. Clear night.

The motel door creaks open and it doesn’t take long before the courier places his mouth on Vulpes, on his neck, his shoulders. They undress in silence and lie on the bed. Vulpes bites and gnashes and the courier strokes his strong, muscular forearms up to his face, where Vulpes looks away.

The courier mounts Inculta and holds his hips in long, surgeon's fingers as he fucks deep into him. Underneath him, Vulpes sighs and grunts and twists. His fingers worry the sheets as he remembers that this is the tenth time. Ten times he violated his post for this dissolute, ten times he went where an agent of the bull should never go. He's allowed himself to be dominated ten times more than any true frumentarius should.

When he wakes up in the morning, naked and sore, he leans over the bed and realizes that he is absolutely in love with this walk-the-wasteland outsider.

He doesn't sleep too well after that.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> The author's blog is whal3rs.tumblr.com


End file.
